


The Only Time I Can't Control My Mind

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Seizure, Seizures, epileptic, fraternal love, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: Sherlock wants to know, so Mycroft tells him.





	

**The only time I can’t control my mind  
The only time I can’t put up a fight**

“Ah, Mister Holmes. I began to wonder if you would ever be gracing us with your presence again.” Ms Acrebright greeted Sherlock as he slipped into the classroom, holding his literacy book and pencil case to his chest with his left hand. She was standing at the door, holding it open as her students piled in for their lesson. “Feeling better, I hope?” Catherine Acrebright was one of the very few teacher that Sherlock and Mycroft shared a mutual liking for at their school. Stern though she was, she was a woman who believed in fairness at all angles and she treated all of her pupils with as much respect as she expected them to show her. For that, Mycroft had always instilled within himself and Sherlock that she was a woman to be trusted, somewhat, and respected hugely. 

Sherlock nodded at her quietly and continued toward the middle row of desks in the class. His was furthest away from the door, second row, first desk at the window ledge. He liked it, too. It was quiet, and now it offered him the escape of ‘just glancing out of the window’ if he became bored - or needed an excuse for zoning out. 

“Alright, that is quite enough of that James Trainor; take your seats, ladies and gentlemen, we have a lesson plan to follow and deviation from aforementioned plan will not be tolerated. Open your exercise books at a clear page and open your anthology at page nine.” She instructed, letting the door close as her final students filtered into the classroom. The noise of the room filtered into almost perfect silence, and Ms Acrebright moved to the front of the class. She wrote ‘Gillian Clarke’ followed by ‘Babysitting’ in beautiful cursive. “You are to read this poem until you are completely familiar with the text, and I want you to analyse the text. What is Gillian conveying in the words she writes? What feelings is she expressing? What is the emotion driving the text?” 

Sherlock frowned at the unused copy of the Anthology he’d been given by Mycroft during his time off. He remembered reading this poem - and he remembered hating it. He understood it perfectly; she feels no maternal connection for the child she has borne. But what was the point in the exercise? Gillian was saying she was a mother now and didn’t know what the hell to do about the screaming creature who peed on itself. What was he supposed to say? ‘Gillian is saying she wishes she’d learned what an abortion was before the cut off point?’. He read the poem through again, focusing on the lines about the ‘perfume of her breath’. Sherlock was certain he’d never met anyone whose breath was remotely like perfume. Most people’s breath had the aroma of feet and coffee, or cigarettes, and he was sure that Gillian’s baby’s breath would smell of vomit and milk. How was that perfume-like in any way?

He picked his favourite biro with its bitten down end from his pencil case and smoothed his hand over the page of his exercise book, ready to write whatever the hell came to his mind. He dated the corner of the page, and wrote ‘Gillian Clarke’s Babysitting’ as a means of a title and waited for the words to analyse her work to come to him. He twisted his mouth side to side and flicked his tongue around inside against his teeth, willing the words to make it to the nib of his pen. He frowned and set down his pen, feeling a creeping feeling on the back of his head. He glanced quickly at his teacher before he peered over his shoulder. As he turned, the young man behind him was drawing back his hand having been flicking his pen into Sherlock’s curls to attract his attention. 

Sherlock crinkled his nose at him, “What?” he whispered. 

“I heard you were back,” Jack Thomas grinned menacingly as he whispered. “None of us thought you’d come back. My money was on you being dead, actually…” 

“Sherlock Holmes, face the front.” Ms Acrebright called out and Sherlock quickly whipped back around in his seat. “And Mister Thomas, if I have to send one more letter home to your parents, you’ll possess more stationary from this school than the school possesses itself. Silent, lone working, please.” She reminded them both quietly. 

Quiet fell again for a moment before Sherlock felt the flicking movements in his hair again, he chanced looking behind him and raised his eyebrows instead of speaking. Jack grinned at him again. “You going to put on another floor dance for everyone?” he giggled quietly. “I heard you had a spaz-attack and pissed your pants.” 

Sherlock jerked back around in his seat and pursed his lips, staring at the anthology book before him. He wasn’t reading or focusing, but he was running over what he remembered from the last day he was in school before today but it was very little. He remembered he hadn’t felt well all day, and that Mycroft had been late to meet him. He remembered going into class, remembered sitting in his usual seat… and then he remembered waking up at the hospital with Mycroft close by and his mother and father looking like they’d been crying for days. Mycroft had told him about the big seizure, about what it had looked like and what had happened and it had plagued Sherlock for a few days that he couldn’t remember it, didn’t know what had happened, that he’d had no control over his body or mind, or his memories. It made him feel hot and embarrassed to know people here had seen that, and that when they looked at him now all they could do was equate him to the boy who was flailing his limbs on the floor and urinating on himself. 

He felt his body tingling with anger and embarrassment, knew that his cheeks were red and burning, and wondered if anyone could hear how fast he was breathing. He wanted to get up and leave, wanted to stand and run and not look back. He wanted to do what Mycroft had suggested, and give in to his mother’s wishes to keep him locked away. _Like Prince John_. He’d be safer at home - he could jerk and space out and fit as much as his broken brain wanted to. Because if that’s what everyone thought of him - as the boy who ‘spazzed’ and peed himself - he wasn’t sure he wanted to be around them. 

When he felt the back of his hair moving again, Sherlock snapped around quickly and gave an angered shout. “Stop touching me!” Jack began to laugh and drew back into his seat. 

“On your feet, Mister Holmes.” Ms Acrebright said calmly. With cheeks fired red in annoyance, Sherlock rose to his feet. He abandoned his books and pencil case on the table and simply stormed from the room, curls bouncing with each angered step. “Sherlock,” Ms Acrebright called out to him, her tone clipped as he both disobeyed her and kicked himself out of her classroom in nine heavy strides. “Sherlock Holmes!” She watched the door swing shut in his absence and turned her attention on her other offending student. “Jack Thomas, your mother will be incredibly proud to hear the way you treat your fellow students, I’m sure. What will be her most treasured tidbit, do you suppose? That you regularly interrupt my lessons, despite repeated warnings, or that terrorise disabled individuals?” 

Every pair of eyes in the room fell on the boy as he sank down into his chair, suitably contrite. But interruption came when the door flew open again, and Sherlock stood in the threshold with heavy breaths claiming his chest and angry tears glistening in his blue eyes. 

“I’m not disabled!” He bawled, fists clenched at his sides. 

Every head turned and those prying eyes fell on the small boy in the doorway. Ms Acrebright wasn’t sure where to place herself, equal parts angered at the boy for shouting at her and embarrassed at the obvious hurt her description of him had caused. She clapped her hands together twice, “Eyes on your work!” She demanded of her class. As every body snapped around in their chairs, she walked toward the door and shooed Sherlock into the hallway. “Sherlock, please, take a moment and reign in your anger.” 

“I’m not disabled!” Sherlock shouted at her, “...and I’m not a spaz!” 

Ms Acrebright’s brows rose sadly. “Is that what Jack said?” 

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not a spaz.” He repeated, calmer this time. He looked up at her. “I’m not disabled, or brain damaged either. It’s just the electrical patterns in my brain misfiring, that’s all. I’m not special, or retarded, or...or anything!” he pulled his arms apart as his body became animated in his upset. “It isn’t fair that he get’s to say things like that and you make me stand up!” 

Ms Acrebright softened her face and clasped her hands at her waist. “I was going to ask you to discuss the poem, that’s why I asked you to stand up,” she explained. “Your mother has been in touch with us during your time off, telling us how much effort you’ve been putting into your studies despite everything you’ve been facing and I knew that you of all people would have something to say about work today.” Sherlock frowned at her and pouted heavily. “I think it would be better for you to take some time to calm yourself down, and I know that your brother is in school today for his upper sixth meeting. Go up to the block and meet him; you and I can discuss things after classes this afternoon. I’m not happy about being shouted at by you, Sherlock, but you get a pass - not an infinite number of passes, mind you.” 

“Take back what you said.” Sherlock mumbled, and stared at her. “I’m not disabled.” 

Ms Acrebright nodded her head. “No; you’re not disabled, Sherlock, and I apologise for my misplaced use of the word.” She said soberly. 

 

 

 

“...and she asked me to get up, so I left the classroom but I was standing outside. I just needed to stand outside.” Sherlock said, cheeks glowing and eyes alight. “But she called me disabled. I’m not a spaz, or disabled, or anything, Mycroft. I’m not a dribbling idiot.” 

Mycroft’s jaw stiffened as he considered Sherlock’s words. The upper sixth lunch room was empty but for the two of them, and he was glad of that fact. Everyone knew Sherlock was his brother, and everyone knew what had ‘happened’ to Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he could cope with Sherlock melting down in front of them all, too. “I know that.” Mycroft said calmly. “As do the staff here, even if they fail to show it accurately. Each staff member is supposed to have a working knowledge of the needs and medical issues of the students within the school. They’ve been given information.” 

“Bugger their information!” Sherlock shouted, and his little voice cracking and groaning made Mycroft startle slightly. “I’m not a textbook, Mikey.” Sherlock’s deep frown threatened to leave permanent creases in his brow. Mycroft didn’t like the use of his baby name on Sherlock’s lips - it sounded young and needy, it sounded frightened. 

“Sherlock - calm down.” 

“I’m sick of people telling me I have to calm down, too. I can’t be angry? I can’t shout at people who look at me like I’m a freak of nature? Everyone else gets to see me when my brain stops working and I have no idea what happens, I have to hear it from them, I have to listen and be okay with it all while they look at me like I belong in a mental hospital or like I need to go and visit some spiritual healer, or something. I’m nearly twelve, Mikey; there’s enough of my changing without my say-so without my brain crapping out and letting my body do what it wants without my knowledge! Why do I have to put up with it?” 

Mycroft sighed sadly - there it was, finally. The breakdown, the loss of control over the loss of control. He didn’t think it would come, didn’t think Sherlock would allow it to surface, but at last it had - and it couldn’t have happened in a more awkward and revealing place, and Mycroft was glad of that. Sherlock’s world had imploded at school, it was crudely fitting that he began to unravel his security blanket and put those pieces of himself back together again in the same place. 

“You shouldn’t have to put up with it, Locky, but you do.” Mycroft said stoically, whilst all he wanted to do was reach out and hold his little brother in his arms like he used to do when Sherlock was smaller. “And it’s because you do that you’re worth so much more than the words people throw at you. You’ve more intelligence and understanding of the world than half of your classmates combined and you need to remember that for every time you hear words like special, spaz or disabled - because you have the higher intelligence to realise they’re wrong.” 

“But why?” Sherlock begged him, his blue eyes darkening as he fought back his angry, defeated tears. “Why do _I_ have to?”

Mycroft’s heart ached. “I wish I knew, because if I knew why I’d reason all the arguments I could for the ‘why not’.” 

Sherlock sniffled and rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I want to go home.” 

“You can - if you really want to. But you fought to come back. Is it really something you want to have to do again in another week, or two, or four?” Mycroft argued reasonably. “You knew it wouldn’t be easy.” 

“Yeah and I also knew that they’d say the things they’d say, but it doesn’t change that they’re saying them.” Sherlock argued back petulantly. He rested his elbows on the table between he and Mycroft and cupped his hands either side of his head, sliding his fingers into his hair. He grabbed his curls tightly and shook his head side to side. “I hate my brain.” 

“Sherlock, in another six weeks I’ll be gone for good, and you won’t be able to come and find me when you feel overwhelmed. You need to learn to armour yourself to mindless, uneducated chatter and protect yourself from mental stress or you risk exacerbating your seizures.” Mycroft said quietly. 

“I know!” Sherlock snapped, releasing his hair and fixing Mycroft with a wet-eyed glare. “I know what I face, and I know what’s going to happen…” He huffed. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He sat back in his chair and let his arms flop at his sides and his head fall back, staring at the ceiling above him. “I haven’t even had a single twitch all day, and I’m still a freak.” Mycroft hated the pained sound to Sherlock’s voice - pathetic and weak, broken and lost. Sherlock snapped his head back up. “I kind of want to - I want to fall down do whatever it is I do, I want it to happen, just so when they call me freak it’s for a reason.” 

“Stop it, Sherlock.” Mycroft closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. 

“Tell me properly what happens.” Sherlock demanded, “When the big ones happen, tell me about them properly.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat, “You’ve read the book, Sherlock.” 

“Tell me what happens to _me_.” He emphasised. 

Mycroft shifted in his seat. He stared at Sherlock a moment and then took a deep breath. “You fall unconscious, and your body stiffens all over - arms, legs, neck,” he explained awkwardly. “You cry out, I fail to find words to describe that particular sound.” He swallowed and coughed to clear his throat. “And when your body has tightened beyond reasonable understanding, it begins to flex - your arms and legs contract, your neck jerks sideways, and your hips lock. Your eyes stay open and they fix blankly; you’re not able to swallow and you drool heavily, your throat makes choking sounds as your tongue moves awkwardly and the saliva pools. As your muscles are contracting, you often become incontinent. Your body jerks for minutes on end, and then it will slow down until it finally stops…” Mycroft wet his lips. “It takes a long time for your breathing to settle down, and even longer for you to be able to hear what we’re saying and regain consciousness. You cry, you try to move but you barely make anything purposeful happen with your hands - your words don’t form… And then you sleep, silently and so still….” 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he swallowed against a painful lump that had formed in his throat. He blinked, staring at his brother’s fingers clasped on the table, and slowly brought his eyes up to Mycroft’s face. “No wonder everyone thinks I’m a spaz.” 

Mycroft swallowed against the memories bringing emotion to his throat and blinked away tears before they could even threaten to flood his eyes. “You’re not a spaz, Sherlock.” He said clearly. 

Sherlock braced his hands on the table and pushed his chair back with the backs of his legs as he stood up. “I want to go home.” 

Mycroft nodded his head. “I’ll get the office to call Dad.” He agreed. “Do you want me to come with you?” Sherlock nodded his head, curls falling onto his forehead, and Mycroft saw his little brother look impossibly small. He wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing, being so candid, but he knew that Sherlock would not let up with asking when he truly wanted to know. Mycroft stood quietly and walked around the table to meet his brother. He placed his arm across Sherlock’s shoulders and guided him toward the lunch hall door. “Come on,” he said gently, guiding his brother through the doorway and into the hall. 

Mycroft made a silent vow - one of very many - to be honest with his brother. He’d tell him the truth if he asked questions, every time. He wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t sugarcoat, because he knew that Sherlock needed to know what others knew in order to be one step ahead. Knowledge was power, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew that, even if he couldn’t always control his mind.


End file.
